


Personal Hell

by Comical_Nightmares



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Child Neglect, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Genderfluid Character, Infernal Bureaucracy, M/M, Natural Hatred of Tuesdays, Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Character, Papa/Mama Crowley, Reality Warping, The Bentley talks in old music, Uncomfortable Imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comical_Nightmares/pseuds/Comical_Nightmares
Summary: When you Fall from Grace you are subject to an eternity of torment. Sometimes that means boiling pits of sulfur, sometimes it means blood and pain, and sometimes it means being stuck in traffic for six hours on what had been a previously pleasant Tuesday afternoon.The worst thing is when it means being given everything you want most, only to have it all ripped away. For Crowley, that happens about once every hundred years. With Armageddon on the horizon, the game has changed in way that will guarantee the end of everything if Aziraphale can't find a way to change it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has been edited for continuity, but is largely unchanged from the first posting.

**_Somewhere in Hell_ **

_January 2010, Nine years before the end of the world_

Crowley had been stuck circling around in bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to find a parking space for far longer than most beings ever would care to comprehend. It was raining, he was cold, and the speakers of the Bentley were fading unwillingly between high-volume static and low muttering of the most horrible sort of talk-radio imaginable. His hands were cramping from how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, his back was on fire from having to keep his spine straightened for such an unbearably long time, and his throat was raw from non-stop screaming at the other motorists and the nonsense coming from the radio. He was going to have to do something special to apologize to his poor girl later, she didn’t deserve his frustration.

A flash of taillights catches his attention, someone is finally backing out. His resulting laughter starts to tip on the edge of hysterical as he holds up traffic in order to claim the spot, and listens to the chorus of car horns that sound off behind him. The space, of course, ends up being just a touch too small and he spends what feels like another full hour cursing everything in sight while trying to find the perfect angle to get the Bentley to snugly slot in.

Finally settled, Crowley kills the engine and takes a series of much-needed deep breaths. He hadn’t taken the time to properly prepare himself for this whole affair, thinking the whole onset-of-Armageddon business would erase the need for these centennial disturbances, and was completely blindsided at being pulled away suddenly into gridlock traffic right in the middle of lunch. Aziraphale would be wanting an explanation for that, something else to add to mounting pile of anxieties. Nothing pleasant ever happens on Tuesdays; best to just get it over with. 

The rain falls even harder as he steps outside the car. He pauses to rub a hand down the hood of Bentley and the cooling engine clicks and sighs at him sympathetically. Her forgiveness and understanding makes him feel a little stronger, and he’s able to confidently stride across the street without any wobbling in his legs. It was a small victory, but the odds were already stacked against him and he’d take what he could get.

He’s completely soaked by the time he makes it to the entrance of a towering and decrepit brick building sandwiched between a dentist’s office, and a very shabby looking diner that smelled strongly of rotten fish, even from the outside. The building is unmarked and has no windows, just a single sheet of white paper on a thick red door that reads ‘No pets-children encouraged’ in all capital letters. Those whose names are not Anthony J. Crowley, who are also not beings of an occult or ethereal nature, likely wouldn’t notice that it existed at all.

Crowley walks to the door and takes one last deep breath before sliding the sunglasses off his face and stowing them away in his pocket. He’d forgotten to remove them the last time and that pair, along with all the duplicate pairs in the Bentley, had vanished when he walked in the door. He’d been taken to trial for the infraction and it was a full month spent locked in a tiny cage before he was allowed to use miracles again.

Nasty business, not worth the hassle. Cringing, he throws open the heavy door and slips inside.

Behind the door is an impossibly long hallway. The white linoleum floor is so filthy that it’s nearly black and is uncomfortably sticky. Carcasses of dead rodents and insects line the corners and edges of the hall, trapped in pools of blood and other questionable fluids. Walls that may have been white in another life are yellowed, peeling, and caked in grime. Every third uncovered fluorescent light fixture lining the entire length of the ceiling has a bulb flickering, casting shadows that smile menacingly if you look too hard. The whole places smells so heavily of rot and ammonia that it would likely knock out anyone with a normal functioning respiratory system. Crowley saunters down it with his usual passive grace; just another Tuesday, really.

They don’t need to know that every step burns almost as badly as walking onto consecrated ground, and that the boots Crowley is wearing will definitely be destroyed later in a drunken fit of screaming and crying. The shadows chatter, and a mockery of a soft-spoken angel’s voice echoes off the walls.

“ _Can’t be caught fraternizing_ ”

“ _I’m an angel, you’re a demon_ ”

“ _Foul fiend_ ”

“ _You go too fast for me_ ”

He swats at the air and tells them to shut it. It isn’t scary if you already hear it every time you shut your eyes. They instead switch to murmuring about how not fun he is these days before disappearing entirely. The rest of the walk is quiet, save the squelching of his shoes sticking to the floor.

An eternity later, he passes through a set of double doors at the end of the hallway and into a cramped empty lobby. Two rows of short, armless, plastic chairs placed way too close together take up the entire center floor. The room is about as clean and inviting as the hall, and the smell is not at all improved by the pot of burnt black sludge in the corner pretending to be coffee. Nothing about the room has changed in the last hundred years, save for a poster slapped on the peeling wallpaper with the words ‘ _die, cry, hate’_ written in flowery script. Some demons likely thought that was really clever.

He heads automatically to the empty reception area in the back corner of the room and taps his knuckles twice on a thick plate of glass to get the attention of a woman-shaped being sitting behind a desk reading a battered copy of a trashy romance novel unironically called _Exaltation of the Damned_. She jumps out of her seat _,_ dropping the book and knocking askew the spiraling grey hornet’s nest wig on her head, and glares at him through a pair of comically large pink horn-rimmed glasses.

“Name?” she croaks with the smoothness of someone who had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for the past five-thousand years.

“Crow-Crawly,” the dead name is like ash on his tongue and he smacks his lips in distaste. You would think she would remember it after a few millennia, even though this side of the administration never bothered acknowledging the change.

She gives him a long-suffering sigh and types the name into an ancient computer one key at a time with her long, stuck on, fingernails. They both wait in silence for something to happen, only disturbed by a steady dripping sound that seems to change direction every time the source of it is sought out. Eventually the computer beeps and she bends to pull a giant stack of paper from one of the drawers.

“Fill these out and take a seat,” she drops the paper tower in front of him and returns to her book.

There’s a tiny desk off to the side with a chained pen; it never has enough room to write, the leash of the chain is far too short, and the pen is always running out of ink. Crowley has filled out this paperwork five-hundred and ninety-nine times before today, the tightly spaced inane questions always changing and getting more and more irrelevant. Why does Hell need to know his ring size or what his favorite citrus fruit is?

Guess the punishment for asking a lot of stupid questions is an eternity spent having to answer them.

On the last page he scribbles his sigil, and plops the whole messy pile back on the reception desk before draping himself on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. The woman-shaped being ignores him and proceeds to look over the entire stack agonizingly slowly, feeding the pages one-by-one into a paper shredder as soon as she confirmed that the responses were adequate.

The sound of the shredder has Crowley grinding his teeth after a few hours, and he desperately looks around for a distraction. The reading material has only gotten worse, the sad little stack starting with a German telephone book from 1941, and ending with a moldy copy of an American farmer’s catalog called _Britches, Pumps and Hoes_. The dripping noise gets steadily louder. He starts chipping at the polish on his fingernails and decides to count backward from a billion.

He makes it to 666 when the shredder stops. A set of double doors opposite from the ones Crowley walked through earlier slams open into the wall, and a short fuzzy creature with far too many limbs gestures from the doorway.

“This way, Demon Crawly,” it growls out before turning and walking back the way it came. Crowley shoots up from the chair and quickly gets behind it, knowing exactly what happens if you let yourself get lost here.

The fuzzy thing leads him through a labyrinth of identical walls and unmarked doors at a pace that is just a bit faster than his normal walking speed. He spends the entire time trying to keep up while still not making it seem like he’s rushing. His legs are jelly by the time the two finally stop outside of one of the doors.

“Your room,” Fuzzy growls again and holds out six of its hands expectantly. Crowley scowls and gives it a handful of infernal coins that could only be used at a snack machine that dispenses nothing but little packets of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise, or the vintage _Polybius_ arcade machine kept in the basement of head office as a company joke. He had been saving those coins for years to try and beat his high-score. Fuzzy winks disturbingly at him, gives an odd little wiggle, and pops out of existence.

Crowley hesitates for just a moment before walking through the door. The room is dark except for a single lightbulb in the center shining a ring of dim yellow light around another empty plastic chair. The door slams solidly shut behind him and a heavy lock clicks into place as he crosses the room to sit down.

He’s left sitting alone in the chair until he almost falls asleep out of boredom. Crowley is a being that doesn’t naturally get tired, usually requiring just a touch of demonic magic to force his cooperation into slumber. Naturally falling asleep usually takes him about a month.

Just as he’s about to drift off, a pair of menacing eyes flashes from a corner of the room and Crowley is suddenly wide awake. Dark laughter fills the room, and a young looking man-shaped being in a clean white lab coat stalks into the light. He looks almost like a normal human at first glance, and a handsome one at that, but there is something just naturally unsettling about his too-wide smile, his too-jovial tone, and his too-pointy teeth.

“Welcome back Demon Crawly,” the being snaps its fingers and a much more comfortable chair appears for him to sit in.

Crowley smirks, “Can’t say I missed it. How you been Jasper? Past century looks good on you.”

“Bad, as always,” the demon, Jasper, grins and the light reflects off a mouthful of suddenly razor-sharp teeth.

Crowley shivers, disguising his discomfort by also wrinkling his nose, “Right. Course. Let’s get on with it then?”

Jasper pulls a clip-board holding a packet of papers and a click-top pen out of the pocket of his lab coat and studies the information in front of him for a moment. He hums, makes theatrical startled gasps, shakes his head in disapproval, then sets the clip-board down on his knees and steeples his fingers, “I see that it’s been 36,524.2199 days since your last visit.”

“To the millisecond, obviously,” Crowley slouches even farther into the tiny chair like it’s somehow going to make him more comfortable.

“And how is life on Earth treating you?”

“Bout’ as well as it treats anybody, I guess.”

“And the humans?”

“Falling further from Grace with each passing day.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Ah, you know, damned if I do- damned if I don’t,” Crowley cracks a toothy grin and Jasper scoffs in offense at the joke.

Crowley waves a hand in front of his own face, “Oh come off it, nearly two-thousand years spent on that bastardized psychology degree and the best you can come up with is ‘ _how does that make you feel_?’ I’ve met eleven-year-olds with more emotional intelligence.”

Jasper only grins at him, it never gets any less unsettling.

“Alright, fine, it makes me feel…..spooky.”

“Spooky?” Jasper raises a well-manicured eyebrow at him.

“Yes. I’m the mysterious force whispering in ears and guiding them gently downward aren’t I? Very spooky,” Crowley’s yellow eyes glint mischievously and Jasper chuckles.

“You should really be doing better than ‘spooky’ by now Crawly, with all the time you’ve had to learn about the humans.”

“Eh, violence and abject terror were never really my department. I’m much better suited to sowing doubt and discord, and the big-guy doesn’t really care one way or the other as long as the jobs get done.”

Jasper glances once again at the clipboard, “It says here you’ve been given a very special assignment recently.”

“Eh…..just ensuring the anti-Christ comes into full power and overseeing the end of the Earth. Not a big deal really.”

“One could argue it’s the biggest deal of all.”

Jasper’s tone is suspicious and laced with a hidden warning. It’s obvious he doesn’t trust Crowley-no one did really- and a slip up here would likely result in, well, the end of the world; doctor-patient confidentiality or no.

Crowley sighs and straightens himself up, locking eyes with the other demon, “Yes, I suppose one could. Look, I’m not going to cock it up, alright? I know what’s riding on the little heathen.”

This, of course, was a lie; perhaps the grandest lie Crowley had ever told. Most were right not to trust him, with only one angelic exception.

Jasper doesn’t look entirely convinced, but at least they’re able to move on. Crowley gets badgered into rambling about his past, present, and hopes for the future, knowing that not answering in a way that at least _seems_ convincing would just result in a longer stay. The farce of a therapy session concludes with him dramatically sobbing into the sleeve of his jacket about the unfairness of his Fall.

After he’s finished sniffling and drying his crocodile tears, the other demon looks up from his clipboard where he’d been doodling rude cartoons in the margins of someone’s old grocery list, “Do you feel better?”

“Not really,” Crowley deadpans.

“Excellent. Now the real fun begins,” Jasper starts cackling in a way that manages to sound both maniacal and completely resigned. Crowley has to wait awkwardly for several minutes until it stops.

When the laughter subsides the demon snaps his fingers and transports them into a sterile and brightly lit white room. In the center of the room is a bed. Crowley’s arms and legs start to tremble with nervous anticipation as he walks forward to sit on it. Jasper collects a metal tray from a stand in the corner and rounds over to him.

“You know the drill,” he mutters, all the previous malicious glee having vanished. No demon liked being in this room, Jasper perhaps the least of all.

Crowley automatically holds out his hand, palm up, and lets the other slice the tip of his index finger open with a scalpel. Jasper sets down the knife and picks up a small, thin, sheet of plastic. He turns Crowley’s hand and lets a drop of inky black blood fall onto it before the cut automatically seals itself. He wipes the rest of the blood away with a moist towel and takes the sample over to a computer on the left side of the room, shoving it carelessly into what would be mistaken on old human machine as a ‘floppy drive’.

The computer sparks to life and starts making all sorts of official scientific noises, beeping and humming as it digests the information provided by that single drop of blood. While they wait Jasper pulls out a long metal file and starts sharpening his already pointed fingernails. Some time later, a computerized voice cheerfully chimes out, ‘ _Results are in!_ ’ and spits out a long sheet of ticker tape.

Jasper takes it and studies it, scribbling notes onto different sheet of paper. Decoding the nonsense given by the computer was the only part of his job that required any real skill. When he’s done he plugs some numbers into the computer and it spits out a different sheet of paper that he rips out of the machine and crosses the room to hand to Crowley.

“Damnation report,” he says needlessly, urging him to take the paper.

Crowley snatches it out of his hands and glances it over. The results are different from the last time when he had been sleeping for half the century, but were largely unchanged from almost every other time before then.

Greed right at the top- his constant search for _more_ being what caused him to fall to begin with.

Lust second-no comment.

Pride third- though he didn’t see what the big deal was about having pride in yourself and your things.

Sloth after- he likes to sleep, sue him.

Gluttony- for attention mostly.

Envy- the name Oscar is the only thing that comes to mind.

And finally Wrath- the percentage of which in his blood was so small it barely counted.

He crumples up the paper and throws it on the ground where it bursts into flames. Jasper walks over again and hands him an ancient wireless telephone. When Hell decided to commit to something- archaic human technology in this case- they did it unrelentingly…..with various horrible results.

Crowley holds the phone to his ear and groans at the pre-recorded introduction message- _Welcome to Hell! Your call is very important to us_ \- and angerly pokes at the number pad as he’s directed and re-directed through several different option menus. Finally he finds the button for ‘centennial torment’ and listens as a robotic feminine voice, with growled baritone interjections, plays over the line.

“ _Thank you for your patience Demon… **Crawly**. Your torment is very important to us. For this review, you have been found guilty of the Deadly Sins of… **Greed** , **Lust** , **Pride**. The punishment is… **one year** …in the unreality device. Failure to comply with punishment with result in further miracle suspension until punishment is complete. Punishment may be extended without notice or infraction; any complaints can be filed via the Sixth Circle mailing room. Do you accept?_”

Without waiting for the options, Crowley hits another button.

“ _You have selected…. **yes, bastards**. Is this correct_?”

Another button.

“ _Thank you for your cooperation, your torment will begin shorty. Portions of this call may be monitored without permission and used for training purposes. Have an infernal day!_ ”

The line disconnects and Crowley throws the phone into the wall. It shatters into pieces and they erupt in flames. All things considered; a year was the most generous sentence he’d ever received. One hour spent in Hell was the equivalent of about five minutes on Earth. By his calculations Crowley had been in Hell for about two months since the summons, and had only been missing from Earth for about three days. Under a month would pass topside without him. That was nothing wasted, and was the only thing that kept him from screaming.

In true hellish fashion, the less time you spent being tormented, the worse the torment became.

Crowley sits passively back on the bed as Jasper dims the lights and launches the mandatory pre-punishment PowerPoint. It begins with a white background slide that reads “So you went to Hell?” in blocky yellow letters. Below the sentence is a picture of an elderly man in a red sweater shrugging his shoulders. Crowley groans and nearly rips his hair out, of course they would make him sit through this; he was the one that made it.

Jasper tells Crowley he’d be back later and gives him a small booklet helpfully titled _The Unreality Device and You,_ letting the presentation continue in the background _._ Crowley watches him leave and obligingly flips through it, disturbed but impressed at how unnerving they’d managed to make the language. He drops it on the floor when he’s done just to watch it burn.

As if he really needed to read it anyway. He’d already spent the equivalent of two human lifetimes hooked into the bloody thing since Lucifer had introduced it at the end of fourteenth century, they just made him read to make his eyes hurt.

The machine was simple, really. It took what you desired most and projected you into an alternate reality where you had it, then perverted it into something horrible until your time ended and you lost it entirely. It was a punishment typically reserved for the worst sort of humans, but it had been decided arbitrarily in a quarterly staff meeting to rotate in a stock of lesser demons that they didn’t like. Three guesses at the first one added to the list.

The only upside to the machine was that no one other than the person experiencing it could ever know what went on. Even the original Adversary himself didn’t think it right to go advertising a person’s entire heart, or whatever it was that demons had to substitute, as a mandatory punishment. Every soul was entitled to a little bit of privacy.

Jasper re-enters the room looking like someone had run him through a washing machine and left him there overnight. Crowley doesn’t even have time to question it before he’s pushed back and fully bound to the bed with think metal chains.

“I’m sorry about this, mate,” Jasper coos in mock-sympathy, the foreign endearment sounding incredibly wrong on his tongue. He wheels the bed next door.

Inside the other room is a solid wall of black machinery that takes up the entire length and width of the room, stretching endlessly beyond what should be the boundaries of the space. There are no screens, no flashing lights; just a hole in the center large enough to fit a bed into, and a big red button off to the right side.

He’s pushed in and is left in complete darkness with his own thoughts for the regulation hour. It allows plenty of time for panic. When the time is up Jasper pats his leg once and smacks the button with all the enthusiasm of someone that really, really, hates their job.

A strange popping noise goes off in Crowley’s ears and he doesn’t even have time to yell before, once again, he’s suddenly somewhere else. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon and an angel call an audible, Aziraphale bonds with the Bentley, Crowley's fate is discussed at length.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I didn't actually have a direction for this when I first posted it. It's turned into something of a silly monster, but I'm having so much writing it. The original characters were not supposed to step out of the background, but they ended up being perfect for my nonsense. This should be the only chapter where they are featured so heavily.

****

****

**_Soho, London_ **

_A Thursday morning in January, 2010_

Something odd was going on in the bookshop across the street. Well, more odd than usual anyhow. Sophie Williams, the owner of a quaint little coffee shop called _Bean and Gone Again_ had made something of an obsessive habit out of watching the comings and goings of the mismatched pair of gentlemen frequently seen about the shop.

For several days now, the sleek black car always parked illegally on the curb had been mysteriously absent, and she hadn’t seen a trace of the lanky red-head that had been showing up at the shop at precisely 8:46 am every day for the past year and a half. The fussy blonde shop owner that always looked as if he’d been transported straight out of historical television could be seen searching and pacing outside the door and windows with increased worry the longer he was away.

She was perched at her shop window at 8:44 am, pretending to tidy up while glancing down the streets for any trace of the car, chest clenched in anticipation of whether or not it would show. Across the street, A.Z. Fell stands outside the bookshop with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, desperately waiting for the appearance of what she can only assume is his ‘and Co’.

The scheduled time comes and goes, and both the shop owners visibly deflate when there’s no sound of screeching tires accompanied by Freddie Mercury crooning at a completely unreasonable volume for that early in the morning. Mr. Fell waits outside for about half an hour longer before turning to head back in. He catches Sophie watching from the window and gives her the expected polite wave, though his usually bright smile is gone. She would have to bring him some biscuits later, poor dear.

At 11:17 am, Sophie locks up and steps out of the shop for lunch. Had she stayed just six minutes longer, she would have been able to witness an empty Bentley swerving dangerously around the road, radio blaring, “ _Just call me angel // of the morning, angel,_ ” and crashing into window of the bookshop. The car throws its own door open and honks its horn twice, demanding the man standing in shock behind the broken glass to get inside.

-

**_Hell_ **

_Fifteen days earlier_

As soon as the machine starts itself up, Jasper sighs wearily and pounds his fist on the side of it. He was an abysmal doctor, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. He slumps back into his office where he throws himself into a lopsided desk chair and goes rifling through one of the bottomless desk drawers for the bottle of single-malt scotch Crowley had gifted him three centuries ago for finally completing his degree.

When he finds it he uncorks the cap and toasts the empty air, then downs the entire bottle in one go. He miraculously re-fills it three more times and when he’s good and drunk, grabs an alarm clock from his desk and sets a countdown timer for three-hundred and sixty-five days, two hours, and eleven minutes. Less than eighteen Earth-days before the last hope to save the world is well and truly fucked.

There was no winning here. If their side was successful, he’d be spending the rest of eternity swamped with work and no where left to vacation. If they weren’t, everything would just…be gone. It was a frightening thing to think about, everything just being gone. Much more frightening than any of the petty terrors he dealt with on daily basis, anyhow.

He’s about six bottles into his brooding when his pocket vibrates and he starts out of the chair, confused. It takes him a moment to remember that not everything in hell was at least two decades out of date before he pulls a sleek modern phone from the pocket of his lab coat. He answers the call, not bothering to look at who was on the other end.

Static comes over line. Reception in hell was always terrible and it takes a while to clear enough that he can make out the voice asking, “Did it happen?”

“Uh-huh,” he sings into the phone.

“How much time have we got?”

“Not enough,” he’s pacing now and drunkenly walks into his desk.

Static cursing can be heard from the other end of the line, “What do we do?”

“We need Aziraphale, how are things on your end?”

The voice hums in agreement, “I’ve got some thoughts on how it could work. How long will it take you to get to Earth?”

Jasper takes the phone from his ear and brings up his work email to check the status of his request for time off, “I’ve had them rushed, but they’re still processing the vacation request forms. Probably another couple of months here, maybe a week or so topside. You know how it is. Plus whatever time it’s going to take to try and convince the Bentley. We’re not going to have a very long window to pull this off.”

“I still don’t see why we need the car in the first place.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jasper growls. They’ve had this conversation about a hundred times by now, and he’s had a rough day. “ _I told you_ , Aziraphale trusting us is the most important part of this plan, and that’s not going to happen unless we can prove a connection to Crowley. The Bentley is our best shot, I think she might be the key to making this work - _if_ I can get her listen.”

“You better be right about this Jazzy,” the voice warns, “I do _not_ want to spend the rest of my existence attending mandatory cocktail parties where the archangels sip sparkling grape juice and congratulate themselves on being masters of the universe. You have no idea how insufferable Gabriel is when he gets what he wants.”

Jasper scoffs, “I honestly doubt he’s worse than Beelzebub.”

The voice on the other end takes an audible breath, preparing to launch into a rant, but gives a heavy exhale instead, “We don’t have time for this. Get your shit together, and meet me online. We’ll hash out this insane plan.”

“Right,” he shakes his head, clearing it of the alcohol. They’re both quiet for a moment before he clears his throat, “Seb?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for doing this.”

“Can’t let you bumble your way into taking all the credit now can I? Besides, if I leave you alone you’d likely have him running away screaming within the first two minutes.” They both burst into laughter, say their goodbyes, and hang up the call.

-

****

**_The streets of London_ **

“I don’t suppose you can tell me where it is you’re taking me?” Aziraphale’s voice wobbles as he clutches the steering wheel of the Bentley for dear life. He isn’t actually doing anything to operate the car as it weaves through traffic at a speed upwards of 143 kph, but holding on to the wheel at least helps him feel better.

The radio clicks on and tunes itself to some dreadful bebop, the lyrics proclaiming, “ _Urgent, Urgent….Emergency!_ ”

He wrinkles his nose in displeasure, “Well I’ve gathered that.”

It wasn’t just the Bentley showing up without its driver and shattering his shop window that clued Aziraphale into the fact that something was very wrong. Not long after Crowley had abruptly disappeared from their lunch, he had tried activating the mutual bond that allowed them to locate each other if needed. All he’d gotten back was static and a deep feeling of fear. That was normal for when the demon was called to Hell, but when he’d tried again early this morning all he could sense was Crowley’s soul screaming.

The radio switches dials again to a slower song and the desperate voice of a female vocalist declares, “ _I really need you tonight // forever’s gonna start tonight._ ”

Aziraphale’s face softens and he gently strokes the dashboard, “Don’t worry old girl, I’ll do whatever I can to help. We’ll find him.”

The car speeds up.

-

**_An empty field outside of London_ **

“You’re sure he’s going to go for this?” A short and round being with long vibrant blue hair crosses their arms and looks speculatively down at a demon in a white lab coat carefully arranging various wrappers, containers, and many bottles of wine on a patchwork blanket full of clashing patterns.

“Crowley’s always talking about how much he eats and says that’s he’s always bugging him for picnics. If we give him human food and alcohol he should be pliant enough to listen,” Jasper explains as he uncorks bottles and removes lids.

“Don’t you think it might be a little too…..romantic?”

The demon pauses for a moment, “I honestly didn’t think of that.” He stands and brushes himself off, then runs his hands anxiously through short, dark, hair. “Too late now, they should be here soon.”

The other being lays a hand on his shoulder, “Relax, you’ve got this. But for someone’s sake take off that damn coat, and maybe try not to smile too much.”

“Thanks Seb,” Jasper snaps his fingers and changes into a pair of dark-wash blue jeans and a red and black checkered shirt, “Better?”

Seb chuckles, “Been reading the magazines in reception again, haven’t you?”

“Oh shut up,” the demon scolds, knocking their shoulders together. 

On cue, screeching tires and a roaring engine can be heard barreling toward them, accompanied by the ominous opening notes of the “ _Dante Symphony_ ”. Let it never be said that the Bentley didn’t try and please her passengers.

-

The car power slides into a stop near the two young-looking beings standing side-by-side on their attempt at a picnic blanket. The taller one is classically handsome, pretty much what most people think of when they envision a prefect gentlemen. He starts to smile in greeting, but seems to think better of it and settles on a small wave instead. The shorter one is dressed head to toe in black, has various bits of metal stuck in their face and seems to have made an art-form out of looking bored. Aziraphale can’t tell by looking if the being is meant to be male or female, but it’s obvious to him that neither of them are human.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks the Bentley nervously as he smiles and waves back from the seat of the car. She puffs hot air at him from her vents and the radio plays him a cacophony of ringing bells, alarms, and ticking clocks. “I know, I know, but how can these two possibly help?”

“ _Can’t we give ourselves one more chance? // Why can’t we give love that one more chance_?” Freddie Mercury parrots back at him from the speakers. The car door flings itself open.

“Alright, I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgement.” Aziraphale steps out of the car and pauses to adjust himself in the rear-view mirror.

As he walks toward the blanket, the radio calls after him, “ _Wherever you go // whatever you do // I will be right here waiting for you_.” She really was a good car, though Crowley would probably be displeased with him for saying so.

He makes it up to them and they all stand in silence. Aziraphale crosses his fingers over his stomach and rocks back on his heels, the handsome demon clears his throat, and the other angel scoffs, “Well this is awkward.”

“Perhaps introductions are in order? The two of you already seem to know who I am, but I’m having a hard time recalling ever meeting either one of you,” Aziraphale supplies helpfully.

The demon shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans to keep from fidgeting and winces, “Right. Man I am so bad at this. Hi, uh….I’m Jasper. I’m a demon, but you probably know that already, and that’s Seb, angel.”

“Yo,” Seb waves.

“I’m a, uh….co-worker? No. Associate? I just….I know Crowley. Seb, help, please,” Jasper buries his head in his hands.

Seb rolls their eyes, “What the walking ball of anxiety over there is trying to say, is that we’re here because Crowley needs our help. We’re hoping you might be willing to listen to what we have to say. We brought wine, and whatever that other stuff is.”

“Well then, should we sit?” Aziraphale tries to smile reassuringly at the demon, but gets the feeling it has the opposite effect. He walks over and sits down properly on the edge of the rather horrid blanket and gestures for the other two to do the same. Seb plops down gracelessly, grabbing a bottle of wine, and Jasper follows, frantically starting to push the things laid out on the blanket toward him.

“Crowley says you love to eat, so I got you some…..well I don’t really know what this is, but I was told it’s delicious!”

Aziraphale glances down at the strangest spread of food he’d ever seen, and he’d tried nearly every cuisine at least once. Packaged sushi with a logo from a local gas station, pickled pig’s feet, a fruitcake, seventeen packets of mayonnaise, a package of marshmallow candy called ‘circus peanuts’, some sort of cabbage soup; things no one ever really wanted to eat.

“I already ate, but thank you so much for the hospitality dears,” this might be the only time in his existence that the angel had ever turned down food.

Poor Jasper visibly starts to panic, he was trying so hard to impress. His friend gives Aziraphale a _look_ and he sheepishly opens the bag of circus peanuts and delicately pops one in his mouth. It takes everything in him not to spit it back out, he would never understand Americans. At least the wine was chosen well, and he helps himself to one of the bottles.

This seems to calm the demon down and Seb wordlessly passes him wine. He takes a long pull from the bottle and continues, “so….Crowley’s in trouble. I guess he’s more or less always in trouble, but this time it’s big. Life-ending big. The head office of Hell is actually trying to destroy him.”

Aziraphale sets down his bottle and gives the nervous demon his full attention, something that makes him squirm and glance over to his friend for help.

Seb sighs, “Ok, so you know how in Heaven we have to go to those dreadful conventions once every hundred years for fellowship circles and team-building exercises that are mostly focused on Heaven being amazing?”

They pause and Aziraphale winces and nods.

“Well, reverse it for Hell, except make it more of an unwilling commitment into a rehab center. They give you a list of your faults, design a ‘treatment plan’, make you suffer alone until you’ll do anything to get out, then give you back your drugs and say they’ll see you next time.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says seriously, “I take it Crowley is currently undergoing this ‘rehab’ then?”

Jasper finds his voice again and chimes in, “Yeah. And it’s worse for him than maybe any other damned soul. Usually it’s pretty tame-they find out you’re scared of spiders and lock you in a room full of them for a few years, that kind of thing.”

Aziraphale doesn’t see how that could ever be considered ‘tame’, but urges the demon to continue.

“Well six-hundred years ago Lucifer introduced something he _so creatively_ called the ‘Unreality Device’. It’s a machine designed to create alternate realities that give the person hooked into it what they want most in their existence, and then take it away. I was going to save the pamphlet for you to speed this along, but Crowley burned it.”

Seb lets out a snort of laughter, “Course he did.”

Jasper glares at them, “ _Anyway_ … the machine was supposed to replace standard torment, streamline the whole ordeal, but they found out pretty quick that it had the unfortunate side-effect of breaking the minds of all its victims. Having a bunch of completely unhinged traumatized demons wandering around wasn’t good for anybody, so they regulated its use to only the most vile of human souls. With one exception, you shouldn’t even need to guess.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers sadly.

Seb bows their head, and Jasper looks as if he’s about to cry. He takes another long pull of the wine and swallows down his feelings before continuing, “He was one of the initial trials, and the only one that had ever come out with their mind still mostly intact. Head office wanted to know why, so they just kept throwing him in there every hundred years. They told him it was because they didn’t like him.”

Aziraphale puts a hand over his mouth, “My poor darling.” His eyes start welling with tears and he pinches his nose to hold them back, “ I believe I need a moment.”

“I think we all do,” Seb agrees, reaching over to cover Jasper’s hand with their own. They fall into silence and the Bentley clicks on her radio and plays “ _The Show Must Go On”_.

All three of them are sniffling when the song ends.

“Jasper,” Aziraphale starts, voice wobbling, “why do you know all of this?”

“I-I’m the one that puts him in there. I’m sorry,” he bows his head and goes completely still. If the angel decided to smite him, he would make it easy.

The group is quiet for a long time. Aziraphale studies the demon in front of him long and hard, and notices a protective tension in the blue-haired angel. Finally, he sighs and whispers, “I forgive you.”

Everyone lets out a collective breath, and the blonde angel reaches for more wine, “I suppose there’s more to it?”

Jasper nods, “Only get’s worse really. It is Hell after all.”

This makes Seb snort again and the two of them giggle. They squeeze Jasper’s hand, “I’ll take over for a bit.”

“Thanks,” the demon sits back and lets his friend continue.

“Crowley is….special. I think you already know this, Aziraphale. For whatever reason, he can make things a reality just by believing in them. It’s why the Bentley is almost sentient and why he’s still able to bless humans in spite of being a demon. Aside from the Morningstar and the Almighty, and their direct descendants, no being should be able to bend reality like that.”

A lightbulb goes off in Aziraphale’s head, “That’s why the machine doesn’t work.”

Jasper chuckles darkly, “Got it in one. You really are as smart as he says. Took me ages to figure that out, and I spent two millennia at Hell’s University.” 

“Stop it Jazzy, you’re brilliant,” Seb scolds.

The demon blushes and scoffs, “Sure. I’m so brilliant that I _published a paper_ when I finally figured it out.”

“You didn’t know it would cause him any harm back then though, it was just science.”

“It’s _Hell_ Seb, I should have known.”

Aziraphale holds up his hands and gestures for them to stop, “Back up a moment here, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That I fucked up and gave them what they needed to finally break Crowley? Yeah, I did. Spent centuries on research and found out the machine doesn’t work on him because Crowley doesn’t actually believe in anything that happens while he’s hooked up to it, so he comes out with the experience being more akin to a night terror. They needed something that he _would_ believe. So they forced him into mandatory therapy,” Jasper growls and shoots up from the blanket, then starts pacing around the edge.

He throws his arms in the air, “And they made me his fucking doctor! I didn’t give a shit about Crowley one way or the other back then and used the study of his torment to earn myself a big shiny medal and move up the ranks. They rewarded me by forcing me to learn everything there ever was to know about the being I had unwittingly condemned in the worst possible way.”

Seb stands and walks over to the demon, grabbing his arm to still him, and whispers something Aziraphale pretends not to hear. Jasper nods, patting the shoulder of the angel, and marches off into the field with a bottle of wine, muttering to himself.

Seb rejoins him on the blanket and starts spinning an empty bottle around on the ground, “Sorry, this is hard on him. He’s had a rough eight months down in hell trying to figure out a way to fix this.”

Aziraphale hums and swirls the wine around in his glass. They are quiet for a long time before he tilts his head and asks, “And how are the two of you associated?”

The other angel shrugs, “We started talking centuries ago in an unsanctioned Heaven and Hell chat-room based on mutual hatred of our jobs, but didn’t officially meet until a few days ago.”

“I see. That’s……lovely.” Aziraphale smiles and fidgets with the chain of his pocket watch, “If you don’t mind my asking, why exactly are you here? I can understand why dear Jasper wishes to help Crowley, but how do you factor into all of this?” 

Seb smiles at him mockingly, “I’m here because you two dorks might be the only chance we’ve got at stopping the apocalypse. In case you couldn’t tell by now, neither Jasper or I really fit into our respective ‘clubs’. Earth is the only place we have anything in common with, and you and Crowley are almost legends to anyone in Heaven or Hell who’s too much of fucking disaster to keep up the status-quo. We’d all lose everything without the humans, and we’d lose each other. Pretty sure you can relate to that.”

Aziraphale flushes and nods, then reaches for bottle to take a long drink, “I take it that’s why Hell seems so keen on having Crowley destroyed?”

The younger angel reaches into their pocket and pulls out some sort of contraption and a bottle of liquid, fiddling with it as they speak, “Yup. They forced everything out by locking them both in a room in Purgatory until there were no secrets left. Crowley thinks that Jasper is under oath not to tell anyone the things he learns, and technically he was, until they rushed his own centennial torment and tortured him into breaking it.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, “Well that’s not very sporting”

“It’s Hell dude,” Seb puts the contraption to their face and inhales from it, then blows out a thick cloud of sweet-smelling water vapor that Aziraphale waves away in distaste.

“So they’re going to use this information to execute him?”

“Worse,” Seb sets the contraption down and leans back, “They put him back in the machine, but this time they gave it a pre-written reality instead of just letting Crowley’s imagination do the work. We don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but we can guess, based on his biggest weakness.”

“That being?” Aziraphale raises a prim eyebrow.

“You; idiot,” they scoff and flip hair out of their face.

Offended, the older angel prepares to launch into a tirade, “I-“

Seb cuts him off immediately with a harsh glare, “Don’t even start. They made Crowley tell Jasper _everything_ , including the way he feels about you. Let’s be real, it’s nothing you didn’t already know.”

The blonde angel turns a startling shade of red and turns his face away, “If that’s the case, why not just kill him normally? Why go through all the trouble of fussing with alternate realities and all this nonsense?”

Jasper returns from his trip through the field and gives Seb a nod as they continue, “Because the higher-ups of hell are forced to comply with the bureaucracy just like the rest of them, and doing something underhanded like forcing a doctor to break a sacred oath and using that information in a trial is against the rules. They can’t _officially_ punish Crowley for anything Jasper told him because they don’t have usable evidence.”

“But allowing the machine to break him during a regularly-sanctioned torment is completely within the letter of the law,” Jasper finishes, noticeably calmer.

Aziraphale falls silent, digesting the information. He didn’t have any reason to believe the two of them were lying, but it was all a bit much for him to wrap his head around. He reacts the way he always does when faced with thing he doesn’t understand, he pushes back.

“This all seems a bit unorthodox. How am I to know that the two of you aren’t playing me for a fool?”

Seb glares at him, eyes flashing dangerously, “There’s nothing more we can say or do to prove it to you Aziraphale, we’re both already risking our necks just being here in the first place. You’re just going to have to trust us.”

Aziraphale stares crossly back at both of them, folding his arms, “Trust a rude angel trying to masquerade as a devil, and a frazzled mess of a demon whom I have just discovered has been torturing my good friend for hundreds of years? Bit of a tall order, wouldn’t you say?”

Jasper flinches as if he’d just been struck and Seb whistles, “Ouch, you don’t pull any punches do you?”

“My apologies,” Aziraphale mumbles, smirking with his eyes.

Jasper reaches over to lay a hand on Seb’s arm to keep them from arguing any further. He locks eyes with the fussy angel and pleads, “Say what you will about me Aziraphale, I deserve it, but please don’t take this lightly. You’re our only hope of making this work. If you don’t trust us now, Crowley as you know him will be completely destroyed, followed by everything left on Earth that you love.”

Aziraphale chews his lip, at war with himself over the next course of action. He looks behind him at the Bentley, “I suppose you’re vouching for these two then?”

The Bentley switches on her radio and a mournful voice softly sings, “ _And I would give anything I own // I would give up my life, my heart, my home // I would give everything I own // Just to have you back again_ ”

“But what could we possibly….” Aziraphale trails off, voice caught in his throat. 

The Bentley honks her horn angerly and turns the radio up as the music hauntingly slows and the lone voice calls into the empty air, “ _Is there someone you know // you’re loving them so // but taking them all for granted // you may lose them one day // someone takes them away // and they don’t hear the words you long to say.”_

Tears start to fall down the Aziraphale’s cheeks and Jasper leans over and places a tentative hand on his thigh, “If the situation were reversed, what would Crowley do?”

Seb huffs and mouths off, “Probably something ridiculous, like finding a way to crash the Bentley into Heaven to rip the machine apart with his bare hands.”

Aziraphale lets out a startled bark of laughter and starts to rub at his eyes, “You’re right. I’m being incredibly stubborn aren’t I?”

Jasper and Seb exchange an excited glance and Aziraphale smiles, “Of course I’ll help Crowley.”

The Bentley flashes her lights, honks her horn, and happily waves her windshield wipers. Seb graces Aziraphale with their first non-sardonic smile of the entire exchange, and Jasper launches forward and wraps his arms around the older angel’s neck.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale pats him on the back awkwardly as the demon whispers ‘thank you’ over and over into his neck. “There, there, dear fellow.”

Jasper sniffs and slowly pulls away. The three fall back into silence for a moment before Aziraphale straightens his bowtie and clears his throat, “Alright then. I suppose the two of you have a plan?”

The demon grins, stretching his face unnaturally wide and showing off his pointed teeth. Aziraphale makes a vow to never do anything that would give Jasper cause to smile at him like that ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the songs played by the Bentley are notated below in order of appearance, and a Youtube playlist can be found  here . Times of the sound bites are listed after song titles. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed and will stick with me for the next chapter. 
> 
> Juice Newton: Angel of The Morning (1:00)  
> Foreigner: Urgent (3:39)  
> Bonnie Tyler: Total Eclipse of the Heart- (2:07)  
> Liszt: A Dante Symphony, S.109 - 1. Inferno (0:00-2:00)  
> Pink Floyd: Time (0:00-0:21, be careful of the volume)  
> Queen & David Bowie: Under Pressure (2:37)  
> Richard Marx: Right Here Waiting ( 1:17)  
> Queen: The Show Must Go On (Full song)  
> Bread: Everything I Own (1:48-2:33)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the world inside Crowley's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd give people a chapter of pure fluff before we get to the heavy bits. She/her pronouns are used for Crowley when presenting as Nanny Ashtoreth.

Inside the machine, Crowley dreams.

**August 2018**

_One Year Before the End of the World_.

“ _Happy birthday to you….”_ Nanny Ashtoreth sings as she carries a cake with ten flickering candles over to a table of hyperactive children. She sets the cake in front of Warlock and smiles as they all finish singing and he enthusiastically blows out his candles. After the children have all tucked in, she walks to the back of the canopy tent to converse with ‘The Amazing Mr. Fell’ as he sets up for his magic act.

“Are you really going to go through with this? These kids will rip you apart,” Crowley raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow as Aziraphale stuffs a live pigeon into his shirt sleeve.

The angel turns to him and smiles, “Of course! Children love magic!”

Crowley scoffs, “Your funeral.”

She smirks as she walks back to clean up after the children and usher them over to the front of the little stage. She would never say it in a billion years, but she rather enjoyed watching her angel make an absolute fool of himself attempting to do stage magic. It was adorable.

The show goes about as well as expected. Aziraphale fumbles every card trick, and the only time the children seem even the slightest bit entertained is when the hoard of live animals escapes unprompted from the depths of his coat. He tries to rally by scooping up a fluffy white rabbit and cradling it to his chest.

“For my final trick I’ll be needing the assistance of our good friend Harry the Rabbit,” he holds the poor creature out for the audience and the children groan.

The magician clears his throat, “Now, I believe I owe young master Warlock over there a birthday present, but a real rabbit is a bit of a hassle to care for. So let’s take old Harry here and turn him into something a bit more manageable.”

Aziraphale pulls out a plastic wand and speaks some nonsense ‘magic words’. Before their eyes, the children watch as he passes the wand over the live rabbit, magically stiffening it and turning it into a cuddly stuffed toy. He hands the toy down to Warlock, who takes it with awe, and the children break into excited chatter. Aziraphale bows and exits the stage to rambunctious applause.

He joins Crowley off to the side and watches as the children fight over the rabbit to see if it really was a toy now, and smirks in triumph, “I told you children loved magic.”

Crowley huffs, “That doesn’t count, you used a miracle.”

“I did not,” Aziraphale argues indignantly, “You just weren’t paying close enough attention.”

“I was standing right here; I saw you use a miracle.”

“It was the magic,” Aziraphale wiggles his fingers in front of his face and Crowley snorts.

“You’re ridiculous.”

They both watch fondly as Warlock firmly claims the rabbit for his own and takes off running into the gardens, the group of children following behind him. Crowley and Aziraphale slowly meander their way over to supervise.

“I take it the boy’s parents won’t be making an appearance today?” Aziraphale asks, strolling with his hands clasped behind his back.

Crowley scowls, “Nah, got called away in some sort of ‘emergency’.”

“What a pity.”

“Ah, who needs ‘em. If you ask me kid’s better off without them.”

Aziraphale stops for a moment, placing a hand on the demon’s shoulder, “Every child needs love Crowley”

Crowley smirks, watching as Warlock gets tackled to the ground and tickled into submission by his friends, “Yeah, well that’s what we’re here for.”

**September 2018**

The school term has started again, and Warlock seems to be having trouble staying focused. The Dowlings decide to do what all absent parents with enough money to throw around do, and hire a tutor. Fortunately, Aziraphale is much more intelligent than he is practical, so he resigns from his gardening position and gets hired on the spot under the alias ‘Mr. Az.’

His teaching methods connect with the boy more than any others, and it’s not long before he starts pursuing his own interests of study, backed by the angel’s enthusiastic guidance. Crowley’s chest swells watching the boy begin to succeed, and she is more than happy to have Aziraphale in much closer proximity than he’s been for the past ten years, despite him working on the grounds. Now there was actually a reason for them to regularly talk.

Nanny Ashtoreth is in the kitchen preparing an after-school snack when the boy comes shuffling in.

“How was your day dear?” she asks, setting a small sandwich plate in front of him.

“Fine,” he mumbles around the food he’d shoved into his mouth the second he could reach it. 

“Anything interesting to report?”

Warlock swallows thickly and hesitates a moment before speaking, “My class is going to put on a play this winter. The teacher gave us all scripts today so we could learn lines before the auditions in a few weeks.”

Nanny smiles at him, “That’s lovely dear. Are you going to try for a part?”

The boy smiles shyly, “We’re doing _A Christmas Carol_ , and I thought it might be fun to play Scrooge.”

“That’s the ticket. If you’re going to do it, settle for nothing less than the best,” she reaches across the counter to ruffle his hair.

He beams up at her, “Will you help me learn the lines Nanny?”

“Of course dear.”

If Crowley had any say in it, Warlock was going to make the best Ebenezer Scrooge that school had ever seen.

**October 2018**

**“** It’s not fair!” 

The door to Warlock’s room slams shut and the muffled sniffling can be heard behind it. Nanny Ashtoreth waits in the hall a while for the boy to calm himself and then goes over and knocks softy on the door.

“Go away!” Warlock screams, and throws something heavy in the direction of the door, not quite making it the full distance.

“It’s only me, dear,” Nanny coos softly. Soft thumping can be heard from the room before the door is suddenly thrown open and the boy launches into her, wrapping his small arms around her legs and sobbing into her skirt.

She crouches down and draws the boy into her arms, petting his messy hair and humming softly to soothe him. When he’s finished crying she leads him back into the room and sets him down on the bed, then pulls out a clean white handkerchief to wipe away the mess he’s made of his face.

After, she sits down beside him on the bed and wraps an arm around him to hold him close, “That’s better. Now, tell Nanny what has you so upset, love.”

Warlock sniffs and bows his head, “The audition was today.”

Nanny rubs his back as she speaks, “Did you not get the part that you wanted?”

“No, I did. It was brilliant, I was the best one of the whole class and they let me play Scrooge,” the boy mutters into his chest.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I just told mum, and she said that she and dad are leaving next month on holiday and are going to be away until January. They aren’t going to come. I spent so much time learning all those stupid lines and they aren’t even going to come watch me. It’s not fair,” Warlock starts crying again and Nanny draws him into her lap to hold him tightly.

She rocks him as she speaks, “You’re right dear, it isn’t fair. Your dad has a very important job, and that means your parents miss out on things like plays and birthday parties. It isn’t fair, but it’s the way the world sometimes works.”

Warlock sniffs and buries his head against her chest, “But I worked so _hard_.”

“Well, you didn’t put all that work in just for them, now did you? You worked so hard because you like it, and are very good at it. There’s nothing you can do about your parents not being able to go see your play, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t be amazing at it anyway and rub it in their faces when they miss out,” Nanny pokes him in the side and earns a giggle.

He pulls back to look her in the eye, “Will you come watch me Nanny?”

“My dear I wouldn’t miss it if Satan himself came knocking at my door,” she smirks at him mischievously and he laughs again.

“You’re so weird,” Warlock’s smile is so genuine and full of love that it nearly makes Nanny choke.

“Come on then, up you get,” she playfully pushes him off her lap and stands, “I believe a celebration is in order. What say you to some ice cream?”

“Here, here!” Warlock calls from the floor, scrambling to his feet and following her out of the room. As they walk down the hall he tugs once at her hand, “Hey Nanny, do you think we could get Mr. Az to come too?”

Nanny’s eyes glint behind her dark glasses, “Oh, I’m sure he can be tempted.”

**November 2018**

Harriet and Thaddeus Dowling have been screaming across the house at each other for nearly two hours now as they prepare to leave for their holiday. Warlock is in his room in bed with headphones on, doing his best to drown out the noise as the servants scuttle about trying to get everything ready while keeping out of the warzone. Nanny Ashtoreth is in the room provided for to her to stay in anytime the Dowlings are away for an extended time unpacking her things and grumbling about the racket.

Finally, everything seems to settle and Warlock is summoned to the entryway to say goodbye to his parents. Nanny follows him down for emotional support. The boy dutifully hugs and kisses his mother and listens to the lecture from his father about being the man of the house. He waves cheerfully as they leave, then slumps over once the car pulls away.

“Are you alright poppet?” Nanny asks as he leans against the door.

Warlock straightens and mumbles, “Yeah, it just sucks.”

Nanny walks over to the door and grabs him by the shoulders, steering him toward the sitting room, “Well, we are officially the masters of the house now, and as our first official movement, I vote we construct a pillow fort. What say you?”

The boy immediately brightens, “Aye!”

The two of them ransack the house and steal every pillow, blanket, and cushion the can get their hands on and build the most elaborate pillow fort any child could dream of. Nanny brings down an old CD player and proceeds to educate her young charge in the wonders of 80s British rock while they snack on the most indulgent junk food they can find in the pantry. Later, Mr. Az arrives for a scheduled tutoring session to find the two of them jumping around wrapped in fluffy feather boas, mouthing the words to “ _Killer Queen_ ”.

Mr. Az clears his throat and stares at the pair of them, bemused, “I take it the Dowlings are no longer in the building?”

“Nope!” Warlock cheers, bouncing on the cushion-less leather couch and giggling.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a _look_ and the demon shrugs, “I was out-voted?”

Warlock runs over and excitedly tugs on his tutor’s hand, dragging him into the room, “Come with us Mr. Az, we made the best fort ever!”

The prim man awkwardly follows, stammering, “Oh dear, I don’t know if we should…”

“Yeah old man, come play with us,” Nanny wraps her boa around his neck and leads him into the towering mountain of chairs and blankets.

Mr. Az kneels on a single cushion inside the fort while both Nanny and Warlock sprawl out across the space. Aziraphale looks around at the multi-colored fairy lights strung around their heads and how comfortable the normally sullen boy looks and smiles, “I suppose it is rather cozy in here. What is it that one typically does in a ‘pillow fort’?”

Nanny gives a wicked grin.

Sometime later, Mr. Az and Warlock are huddled close together as she uses a flashlight to project shadow puppets on the side of the tent to help narrate what might be the most frightening ghost story ever told.

Mr. Az has a hand over Warlock’s eyes and the boy nervously peeks from between his fingers as she softly concludes, “And they were never seen again.”

She cackles and Warlock buries his head into Mr. Az’s chest. He rubs the boy’s back and glares over at the demon, “Now that’s quite enough of that, you’re going to give him nightmares.”

Nanny comes back to herself and rubs her neck sheepishly, “Might have gotten carried away, sorry kid.”

Warlock detangles himself from Mr. Az and gives his Nanny a wide smile, “Nah, that was awesome!”

“That’s my boy,” she laughs.

After, Mr. Az takes over telling the stories, and while they aren’t half as frightening, his narration and voice-overs captivate his audience. Eventually, Warlock falls asleep with his head in Nanny’s lap.

“He’s had a big day, poor thing,” she coos, stroking a hand down his back. He mumbles in his sleep and snuggles closer.

Aziraphale looks at the pair of them softly, “He’s lucky to have you to cheer him up.”

Crowley captures his eyes, “ _Us_ , Angel, he’s lucky to have us.”

The angel flushes, “Yes, of course.”

**December 2018**

_“Spirit, remove me from this place!”_

Warlock is a natural. Crowley had once hung the stars in the heavens and there was not a single moment of her existence that made her more proud than seeing her boy absolutely killing it up on that stage. He commanded attention like the best of them, and his delivery was superb. Someone in the room must be cutting onions.

Beside him, Aziraphale is smiling so brilliantly it’s a wonder they need a spotlight on Warlock at all. He gasps at all the spooky parts, laughs gleefully at every silly attempt at lightening the mood, and is sniffling toward the end. Crowley wants nothing more than to reach across the chair and take his hand.

Before she can make a move the play is over, and the angel is the first one out of his seat, clapping and hollering ‘bravo!’ as if he were attending Shakespeare at _The Globe_ instead of a ten-year-old’s school play. He gets a lot of strange looks from the other parents, and Crowley peeks at them over the top of her sunglasses and glares right back.

When the encores have died down, Aziraphale turns to her, “That was absolutely wonderful! Did you have any idea he was so talented?”

Crowley shrugs, “We’ve been running lines for weeks, I had a bit of a hunch.”

“Well it was a marvelous job, on both your parts,” the angel praises with a soft smile.

Crowley shrinks away, “I didn’t do anything, that was all him.”

“Really dear, we both know that he never would have made it up on that stage if you hadn’t been there behind him. You’re allowed to give yourself a little credit.”

“Ngk,” Is the only thing the demon can say to that.

The angel laughs, “Come now, let’s go congratulate our little star.”

The two of them leave their seats and head backstage to find Warlock, the phrase, ‘Our little star’ repeating over and over in Crowley’s head. 

**January 2019**

A stylish black Bentley pulls into the grounds of the Dowling estate. At the front of the house, Crowley honks the horn twice and hangs himself out the window to yell, “Hop in kid, we’re playing hooky today!”

An excited Warlock runs out the door just moments later, happy to be free of the house where his parents had spent the past week doing nothing but argue and yell after getting back from holiday. He hops into the passenger side and straps himself in, patting at the dashboard in greeting to graceful old car.

Warlock glances over to him, “Are you a ‘he’ today Nanny?”

“Bit difficult to play paintball in a skirt and heels, yeah?” Crowley grins and starts the engine as Warlock cheers.

They’re so casual it was a bit hard to believe that less than a month had passed since Warlock had stumbled blindly into a conversation he was holding with Aziraphale in his normal and rather masculine tone of voice without any makeup on. The boy had been stunned for a moment, but once recovered had come over and wrapped him in a fierce hug, promising not to say anything to his parents. Crowley had been stunned speechless; they really did raise him well.

Since then whenever it was only the two- sometimes three-of them, Crowley was free to dispense of the Ashtoreth persona as he saw fit. He’d rather enjoyed presenting as a woman, but doing it for all these years had gotten exhausting and it was nice to go back to his usual form. Warlock loved being let in on the secret, and held fast to the promise not to tell anyone else. It still didn’t stop the boy from calling him ‘Nanny’ no matter how he looked.

They get to the paintball arena and spend the day organizing two-man espionage missions against their own assigned team, eventually getting kicked out for refusing to properly play the game. On the way back home, Warlock’s mood seems to sour and he transitions gradually from excited chattering, to anxiously tapping his feet along with the radio, to finally staring sullenly out the window. Noticing the change, Crowley pulls off to the side of the road a few miles out from the estate proper.

They sit in silence for a moment before Crowley sighs and reaches over to ruffle Warlock’s hair, “What’s going on in this beautiful head of yours, boy?”

Warlock gives a half-hearted laugh and fixes his hair before falling back into silence. It takes a while before he suddenly blurts out, “Nanny, have you ever been in love?”

Crowley swallows his tongue and spits out several nonsensical noises. Tightly gripping the wheel of the Bentley, he manages to force out, “Why do you ask?”

Warlock scowls, launching into a tirade, “Because I want to know what the point of it is! People all over make complete fools of themselves for love, sometimes even _dying_ for it, and it never seems to work out. My parents say they’re in love, but they _hate_ each other. Why go through all the trouble only to get hurt?”

So that was it then. Crowley had to give him credit, the boy wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming just as well as the all the other people living and working at the estate. He lets out a long breath, course the kid wants advice about love from a demon. Ah well, no harm in trying.

He stutters a bit, trying to gather his thoughts before starting, “Hu-People fall in love because it’s the greatest feeling in the world. True love makes you feel like you could do anything, be anything, have the world at your feet as long as that person is right next to you helping you rule it. It’s scary, overwhelming, and can make you completely daft at times; but that’s the fun of it really. Love, real love, makes you a better version of yourself, and that’s why everybody’s always chasing after it.”

The boy scoffs, “If it’s so great then why are people always falling out of love more than they fall in it?”

Crowley chuckles, this was his kid alright. He gives it a good bit of thought before continuing, “In most cases, it isn’t love that’s the problem. It’s trying to get the mis-matched jigsaw puzzle pieces of human lives to fit together properly. For some people it’s a clear picture-perfect fit. Others have to work a little harder to get the pieces to fit just right- and it’s not entirely together, but at least you can see what the picture is meant to be. Some people finish part of the puzzle, then get bored and walk away entirely. Then some….some get so frustrated with it that they tip the whole table and destroy any progress that was there to begin with.”

Warlock looks thoughtful for a moment, then seems to understand, “Do you think my parents will finish their puzzle?”

“I couldn’t say, but I know you’re smart enough to understand the direction it’s heading,” No point in trying to lie to the kid when he’d already figured it out.

He goes back to looking out the window despondently, “This isn’t the part where you tell me that it’s not my fault and that they love me no matter what, is it?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything, you can decide that for yourself, but I am going to remind you that I’m here for you no matter what happens,” He reaches over to affectionately tussle Warlock’s hair again and this time the boy leans into the touch.

“Thanks Nanny.”

They pull back onto the road and head toward the estate. After they’ve parked outside the front door Warlock turns again and asks, “What does your puzzle look like?”

Crowley clicks his tongue, “Just what makes you think that I have one?”

“Your voice got all wobbly when you were talking about why love was so great,” Warlock gives him a knowing smirk. Damn, he was teaching the kid way too well. 

“….you’re far too observant. I’m taking you back to the store and getting a less-clever model.”

Warlock giggles, “So tell me.”

“My puzzle….hasn’t been started yet,” he sighs sadly, “There’s a box on the table that’s been there for a very long time, but it hasn’t ever been opened.”

“Why don’t you open it?”

“It’s a lot more complicated that I could ever discuss with a ten-year-old,” Crowley says in a tone that means the conversation is over, and steps out of the car. 

“Fair, I guess,” Warlock follows him out of the car and walks around to give his Nanny a hug. As he pulls away he whispers, “I hope you get to open it someday.”

Crowley climbs back into the Bentley and rests his hands on the steering wheel, “Me too kid, me too.”

**February 2019**

“Come on Aziraphale, it’s a snow day!” Crowley begs. He’s cornered the angel outside the door to the study where Warlock has been cooped up for the past week and a half after he’d been grounded for fighting at school.

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists, “We are under strict orders from the Dowlings that he is not to leave the house.”

The demon scoffs, “Well they’re not here, are they? Besides that other kid deserved it.”

“No issue should be solved with violence, but I am rather inclined to agree with you.”

“So then let’s let him out.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, “If we let him out he’ll never learn.”

“He didn’t even start it!” Crowley throws his arms in the air, “The other kid, bigger than him mind you, was calling him a sissy because he likes to act, even pushed him over. He was just defending himself.”

“Well when you put it like that….” Aziraphale peeks into the room from the crack in the door and watches Warlock sadly watch the snow fall from the window.

Crowley sneaks up behind him and whispers in his ear over his shoulder, “Just look at him, he’s miserable. How are we supposed to stop him from ending the world when he looks like he’d do it out of sheer boredom?”

The angel shudders, “Oh….alright. You really are a terrible influence.”

Crowley smirks, “I thought that was the idea?”

“Evil serpent, begone with thee,” Aziraphale smiles and shoos Crowley forward toward the door.

The demon sticks out his tongue and gives a playful hiss, then saunters into the room to inform the boy of his newfound freedom. Warlock excitedly hugs both of them and charges up the stairs to get ready. 

As they walk down to the entrance hall Aziraphale turns to Crowley, “Do mind that he dress warmly enough. It would be awful for all of us if he were to catch a chill.”

Crowley throws him a coat that was hanging in the hall closet, “Mind him yourself, you’re coming with us.”

He wrings the fabric in his hands, “Oh, I don’t think I could….”

Crowley throws an arm around his shoulders, “Relax, we just need a referee for the snowball fight, make sure everything is above board, yeah.”

Aziraphale flushes, “I suppose there’s no harm in keeping the poor boy away from your slithering wiles.”

“Course not,” the demon rubs his own nose, “And afterwards we can have coca and some of those peppermint biscuits you’ve been hoarding away since Christmas.”

The angel gives a delighted wiggle, “It is the perfect weather for it, isn’t it?”

Warlock runs back down the stairs and waits patiently as Aziraphale dotes on him, wrapping him in gloves, a scarf, and an oversized puffy jacket that makes him look like an adorable marshmallow. When he’s finally released he charges outside, pausing and waving for Nanny and Mr. Az to catch up. Crowley starts to follow him, but is stopped by the angel.

He tuts at him, “You’re not going out there only wearing that, are you?”

Crowley glances down at his typical outfit of dark skinny trousers and a fashionable, but thin, black blazer and shrugs, “Not that I particularly fancy the cold, but I’ll be alright. Demon, remember?”

“At least take this, to keep up appearances,” Aziraphale miracles a fluffy red and black scarf into his hands and steps in to wrap it around Crowley’s neck. The demon swallows hard as he smooths it against his chest, and the angel flushes a brilliant red when he finally realizes just how close they are. He looks up at Crowley and opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by small cough from behind them. They jump apart and turn around.

“Are you two coming or what?” Warlock crosses his arms and taps his foot impatiently from outside the door.

“Yes, coming,” Aziraphale calls back nervously and quickly brushes by both of them to get outside.

Warlock gives Crowley a knowing and amused look as the demon pauses to smell the scarf around his neck, still stunned by having the angel in such close proximity. The boy raises an eyebrow at him, “Dude, you should totally open that box.”

Crowley comes back to himself and gently shoves him over, “Shut it.”

The three of them enjoy a day playing in the snow. Aziraphale is eventually coaxed into actually joining the snowball fight after one too many rounds of ‘friendly fire’ from both Warlock and Crowley, and the two adult children nearly fall over with laughter when Warlock innocently asks why Crowley’s snow angel has a pair of horns. After Warlock has properly tired himself out, they go back inside for coca and biscuits and retire to the sitting room to warm themselves by a fire.

If Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting closer together than what would be considered normal, nobody has to know about it.

**March 2019**

Nanny Ashtoreth walks to the front door of the Dowling estate, adjusting her sleek black cocktail dress for what must be the hundredth time. Crowley loved the look of women’s clothing, but it could be such a pain. She’s joined a few moments later by Aziraphale who’s wearing a tweed suit that probably came straight from the 17th century and brandishing an expensive bottle of wine.

Crowley looks around and turns toward him, “Is it just me or is this presumed ‘party’ somewhat lacking in other people?”

Aziraphale fidgets with his bottle and looks around the area himself, “Perhaps we’re early?”

“I’m never early.” It was in bad taste for a demon to be punctual, and was one of the rules Crowley didn’t actually mind following.

“Shall we see what all of this is about then?” The angel hesitates with his hand on the door.

Crowley shrugs, “Don’t suppose we have a choice.”

They enter the house and are not at all surprised to find zero trace of the promised staff cocktail party that the Dowlings were presumably throwing that night. The lights in the house are off, with the exception of the dining room, where the table is set for two. They walk over to the room and find a tray of mostly burnt chicken nuggets sitting on the table, along with a bowl of soupy macaroni and cheese.

Crowley chokes back an odd noise and Aziraphale looks at the table fondly, with only a bare hint of revulsion at the food, “I take it this would be Warlock’s doing?”

In place of a centerpiece on the table, there is child’s puzzle with a picture of a bookish cartoon owl on the box. Crowley notices it and mumbles to herself, “Cheeky little bugger, who teaches him these things?”

“Well, I did bring a very nice bottle of wine….Shall we sit then?” Aziraphale asks.

“I’ll grab some glasses,” Crowley stalks into the kitchen and returns with two glasses and an opener. Aziraphale pops the bottle and pours the wine while Crowley waves her hand and miracles the mess off the table while leaving enough evidence to suggest that they had actually eaten it. They sit across from each other at the table and sip their wine, neither one of them knowing how to approach the awkward subject.

“Been a while since we’ve done this,” Crowley comments when she can’t stand the silence any longer.

Aziraphale laughs and swirls the wine in his glass, “Yes, I believe the last time you were tempting me into thwarting the apocalypse.”

Crowley chuckles, “Did it work?”

“I do believe we might actually have a shot,” Aziraphale smiles, giving Crowley a thoughtful look.

The demon snorts, “Yeah maybe. Plus he’s terrified of dogs.”

Aziraphale gives her an admonishing glare, “Crowley you didn’t.”

“I didn’t do anything! It’s not my fault that poodles are so terrible. I’d think they were something of ours if I didn’t know any better.”

The angel gives her a look that says he doesn’t believe a word and they both burst into laughter. With the tension eased, they fall into easy and familiar conversation. They swap stories and share old memories until the bottle has been re-filled no less than four times.

“And then Gabriel has the nerve to come up and ask me to-“ Aziraphale is cut off mid-rant by Crowley’s hand covering his and a gesture to be quiet. They both listen as small footsteps sneak down the stairs and into the sitting room. Moments later, the house is flooded by a high pitched warbling.

_“Can Anybodyyyyyy….find me….somebody to….looooove?”_

The footsteps run back upstairs as the piano tune starts and Crowley and Aziraphale look over at each other, embarrassed. They let the song play for a while before Aziraphale clears his throat, “I believe he means for us to dance. He’s playing your favorite song.”

The demon once again chokes on her own tongue, astounded that Aziraphale paid enough attention to her ‘bebop’ to identify the song as a favorite. She looks at the angel cautiously, “Do you think we should-“

“Best give him what he wants,” Aziraphale agrees, already rising from the table. He walks over and extends a hand to help Crowley to her feet. She delicately slips her hand in his and they walk to the sitting room where she slides her arms around his neck and he gently rests his hands on her waist.

They’re both dreadful dancers, and step on each other’s feet more than once as they sway together awkwardly in the middle of the room. Aziraphale leads his partner into a graceless twirl and nearly falls over trying to get his arm above Crowley’s head. She trips into him as they try to join back together and ends up encircled in his arms far closer than they’d been before.

Time stops as she looks down at him and he looks up at her. They both surge forward and crash their lips together and the world starts up again to let the final crescendo of the song crash around them. They kiss desperately as the song slows, clutching on to each other tightly and continuing to sway together.

When the song ends, Aziraphale peels his lips away and stills them both, “Crowley, we can’t-“

“I know, too fast,” Crowley whispers, turning her head to hide the devastated expression on her face.

The angel reaches up to caress her cheek, bringing her face back toward him and stroking it with his thumb, “More like too soon. We have an important job to do and we can’t lose focus.”

Crowley’s breath catches in her throat, almost daring to hope, “And after?”

“My darling, if we manage to ensure that we’ll have all the time in the world, I’d like nothing more than to spend it with you,” he smiles and pats her cheek lovingly before withdrawing back to a safer distance.

She smiles back, “Well, I’ve already waited six-thousand years, what’s another six months?”

Aziraphale snorts and checks his pocket watch, “It’s getting late, I should be heading back.”

Crowley walks him to the door and hesitates at the knob before asking, “You gonna sober up?”

“No, I believe I’d like to keep this feeling a little longer,” the angel steps close again and brushes a chaste kiss on her lips. “For the road,” he whispers, winking.

Crowley grabs his hand and squeezes it once before letting go and letting him walk outside, watching as he leaves. When he’s no longer in sight she shuts the door and lets herself have a moment of ecstatic wiggling before collecting herself and climbing up the stairs.

She stops in front of Warlock’s bedroom, “You can come out now.”

Seconds later the door is thrown open and an excited Warlock starts to chatter, ”Did it work? Did you open it? Are you gonna get married now?”

Crowley gives him an exasperated sigh, “We’ve agreed to wait just a bit longer, but yes you meddling little menace, it worked.”

“Wicked,” Warlock cheers, and Crowley draws him into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter are "Somebody to Love" and "Killer Queen", both by Queen. 
> 
> Strap in folks, it's gonna get bumpy from here.

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing titled here that actually exists is the arcade game Polybius, famous mostly as a CreepyPasta myth.


End file.
